Hatter comprehends the idea of them better than Alice does, but not the horror. Everything in Wonderland is backwards, topsy-turvy, so why shouldn’t the dead shamble out of the graves, walk about? The violence is new-well, maybe not the violence, parse; because he was Hatter and he deals in secrets and drugs and back-crosses and double-crosses and guns and fists that can go through walls-but the horror of this violence, this grotesqueness, it is new for him. He struggles to understand-instead of killing, the eating, and then later the turning; the way Alice’s mom had looked, hollow eyes and broken jaw, pointed little nails curled like they were gnarled, reaching for them. Alice hadn’t thought-she had reacted; it hadn’t taken much to send her flying through the window.
And then they had run.
“Do you think we should try Wonderland?” she asks, sitting between his legs in some abandoned warehouse, listening to the heavy, lumbering footfalls of dead things walking. Sometimes she’d reached behind her, press a hand where his heart pounded, to remind herself.
“No.” His voice is rife with hesitation, censure almost. The fingers on her hips pressed inward, biting. “No. I don’t think that would be a good idea, Alice.”
She realizes it then. Wonderland is a world of mirrors, a reflection of her own. The casinos, the graft, the multi-colored vials that contained emotions-drugs-an addiction in the shroud of childhood. Everything in Wonderland reflected her world, a reversed, turned and shattered illusion of it-but a reflection nonetheless.
So if the dead are pushing themselves out of their graves, stillborns pulled from the birth canal, what must it be like? In Wonderland? Madness walks hand-in-hand with Wonderland, its mate, absorbing the leftover fragments of its twin world. When this-whatever this was-leeched into Wonderland, dripped its poison down onto things like the Jobberwock, what then?
“Not a good idea at all,” she agrees and shivers in his arms.
syfy's alice. alice. hatter. pg13.
Hatter comprehends the idea of them better than Alice does, but not the horror. Everything in Wonderland is backwards, topsy-turvy, so why shouldn’t the dead shamble out of the graves, walk about? The violence is new-well, maybe not the violence, parse; because he was Hatter and he deals in secrets and drugs and back-crosses and double-crosses and guns and fists that can go through walls-but the horror of this violence, this grotesqueness, it is new for him. He struggles to understand-instead of killing, the eating, and then later the turning; the way Alice’s mom had looked, hollow eyes and broken jaw, pointed little nails curled like they were gnarled, reaching for them. Alice hadn’t thought-she had reacted; it hadn’t taken much to send her flying through the window.
And then they had run.
“Do you think we should try Wonderland?” she asks, sitting between his legs in some abandoned warehouse, listening to the heavy, lumbering footfalls of dead things walking. Sometimes she’d reached behind her, press a hand where his heart pounded, to remind herself.
“No.” His voice is rife with hesitation, censure almost. The fingers on her hips pressed inward, biting. “No. I don’t think that would be a good idea, Alice.”
She realizes it then. Wonderland is a world of mirrors, a reflection of her own. The casinos, the graft, the multi-colored vials that contained emotions-drugs-an addiction in the shroud of childhood. Everything in Wonderland reflected her world, a reversed, turned and shattered illusion of it-but a reflection nonetheless.
So if the dead are pushing themselves out of their graves, stillborns pulled from the birth canal, what must it be like? In Wonderland? Madness walks hand-in-hand with Wonderland, its mate, absorbing the leftover fragments of its twin world. When this-whatever this was-leeched into Wonderland, dripped its poison down onto things like the Jobberwock, what then?
“Not a good idea at all,” she agrees and shivers in his arms.
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